Save Rock and Roll
by RosesandEdgars
Summary: Sometimes war damages the best of us. character death.


**First upload in ages. Well.**

 **Anyway, I thought it was about time In contributed to the RVB fandom. This was just something that came up in a prompt generator, so yeah. Is incredibly unclear as to where it is in canon. I'm very tired.**

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It had been five months since the war. Five months since he had seen dark red blood stain iliac armour.

 _Roaring and roaring, the roaring in his head, getting louder and louder, until he can't take it anymore and he smashes every hint of her to the ground, throws a punch at the mirror when he sees_ her _instead of him_

There's another one. A red-head woman with dead green eyes. He knew her name, long ago. Maybe she knew her own name too, once upon a time.

 _There's three voices in her head, one of them whispering doubts into her ear, her deepest fears and regrets, while the other one screams and laughs and sobs into her mind, and then one more voice, soothing and calming and panicked all at the same time, begging for her to wake up, wake up, we're under attack_

A dark-skinned man had told them to stay in isolation for a while, that much he knew. "Both of you need to rest," he had said, his voice _dripping_ with sweet honey and bitter poison.

No one can rest anymore. If they do, they rest forever. Just like the others.

 _There's a bird, but it's not a bird, it's a plane, no it's a person – no wait, it is a plane, and that's a bomb, and it's falling and falling and falling and before he can even move the ground shakes and rumbles when it impacts with the ground and even though they're too far away they can feel the heat and can see the bodies and the troops dropping from the sky_

Maybe it's because they've been in war for far too long, or maybe it's because they're sick in the head now, but they only feel safe when there's a gun firmly grasped in their hands. The dark-skinned man protests against it at first. There's laws and a dozen safety regulations that they're breaking, and if the _chairman were to hear about this…_

But then a man with eyes as green as the red-head interrupts him with his deep southern drawl, staring down the red-head as if daring her to challenge him. She says nothing, and the silence is more deafening than gun fire.

They prefer hunting for their own food rather than living on their rations. They go out separately, because even through all the fucked up shit in their brains they're smart enough to see that a single bang would be all it took for a bullet in the wrong heart.

 _She sees white armour and black armour and the blur of a freeway, and even though she can distinguish the sounds of armour clunking against armour and the gunshots she dodges all she can really hear is her own heartbeat, pumping harder and harder as she lands another hit on the enemy, one after the other until they're lying dead on the ground, and turns around to cast a snarky remark at her partner before realising that he's on the floor, and oh god no there's no way that happened to him there's no way that hit him, and it takes her a moment to assess the blood splattered over the white armour and her own aqua armour before she gives out a strangled cry and rushes forward_

He watches as the bird free falls down, separated from the rest of its flock. He pulls the trigger, and the bang rings in his ears as the bird screeches and falls even faster down, until it lands with a thud by his feet. He bends down to pick it up, not realising his hands are sweaty and shaking. He sees the blood oozing from the bullet wound he created, and somehow the outside seems to be too _crowded_ and too _small_ and _where is South_ and _I can't leave her behind, she's part of me, please don't die-_

The snap of a twig interrupts his thoughts. He turns around in a panic and raises his weapon, his finger trembling on the trigger. The red-head stands before him, her green eyes wide with fear. He lowers his weapon slowly as she begins to mumble about how she "couldn't sleep with all these voices and noises" and he realises that it's not even daytime anymore.

He swore it was afternoon just a moment before.

The red-head offers out a hand and they return to their _cottage_ (there's something about how sweet and homely about the word that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth) together. They tread through the forest together, both of them speaking comforting words to the other that did no good at all. The cottage comes into view and they let go of each other's hand, wishing it was someone else they were holding. But they had to make do with what they had. They always did.

 _She was supposed to be burning, that much she knew, that he wasn't supposed to be the one with the man on fire whispering in his ear, and that with his ambition she would have beaten the shadow and maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have been on the floor screaming a name, a name that fills her with nostalgia and happiness and love and hope and loss and grief and pain and it takes a moment to register just what the name is, and she's heard her father cry it out in his sleep so many times, she's seen that blonde hair and loving smile so many times and she screams out once more as the name passes through her lips again_

"Allison."

The blond glances at her, his brows furrowing as a flicker of confusion flashes across his face. She doesn't scream this time, but there's still a pain in her chest.

He tilts his head to the side, as if expecting for the red-head to say something else. She shakes her head.

"Allison," she repeats. "She's not Allison."

He slowly nods in agreement, although he doesn't understand what she's talking about. The name sounds familiar, though, and the back of his neck tickles when he says the name.

"Allison," he says.

The red-head stares pointedly at a photograph, an image taken when there were more than the two of them and they were actually somewhat happy (even if the red-head and a blonde woman were glaring daggers at each other in the picture, while a man in golden armour laughs with one arm over the blond's shoulder and another arm over a man in black and yellow armour, and two girls in purple and brown armour sit down next to each other, while two men in white wave happily at the camera and a pilot has her hand on the red-head's shoulder, looking off in the distance with a mischievous smirk dancing on her lips). She's staring at the blonde, much like in the photo, only this time she's not glaring.

"Texas," she says.

 _He sees her inside the pelican, the meds looming over her while he screamed at them to help, help her for fuck's sake, and then he hears a soothing voice in his ear, he goes to tell York to can it but realises that it's not gold that's holding him but a black as dark as the night, and he falls into a sobbing mess instead as panic continued around him and then the meds are yelling and then, for her, all is silent_

They sometimes get visits from 'friends'. Strangers that they know come and talk to them, or, in one case, growl. His favourite one that visits is the young man with broken mind. Hers is the boy with the broken eye. They knew them, in a past life. Or maybe this was their life that they knew the strangers. Their memory had been jumbled up so much that they can barely remember their names.

One time the man with green eyes visited. He remained apathetic during the time he came, and almost on instinct she stood up straight _like a soldier_ and saluted _her superior_ her father and all he did in return was give her a curt nod, but then when he thinks they don't see him he almost breaks down to tears because he doesn't see her, he sees another woman long gone.

 _She gives out the report because he is still too shocked to say anything, and then suddenly she laughs, because it doesn't matter, because in the end he's now just one half of a whole and she's broken, broken beyond repair, and the sound is music to her ears and death to the others, and she notices the others not laughing and she doesn't know why, because it's so funny – they're dead, they're dead, they're dead, and it's her fault, they died because of her, it's her fault they're dead_

They escape. They don't know how but they escape. And they run, run across the world, until they brought to a halt and the world stops.

"Carolina."

She blinks in surprise and glances behind her, her mouth agape. Nine soldiers stood behind them, a colourful mix of red and blue and purple and pink and orange, and in front of them stands a tiny glowing man.

"Carolina's your name," the glowing man says. He slowly turns to the other. "And you're North."

"Carolina…" she breathes, feeling a wave of nostalgia wash over her.

"North…" he murmurs. He stares at his hands and for the first time since he could remember, they're not stained with blood.

The glowing man hovers over to Carolina and North. "You're home now."


End file.
